I can hear Granna in the distance. She’s calling me
home but I want to stay. The forest has become my refuge again. Here, amongst
the tangle of trees, I can drown out the voices which followed me; teasing me,
taunting me, calling me ghost-eyes. Mama says I should be proud of my eyes -
ice-grey like my father’s, a memory of him. But I so want them to be brown like
Orson and Aya’s. Normal.

It’s been three days since the wind took my dad. Three
days of huddling in the old school building trying to push the image out of my
head, wondering if we can hang on until spring. I think about Mandi and hope
she’s safe in her cellar, bravely waiting it out, praying for her family. I
should have insisted she come here. I should have made her. I think about Mandi
all the time, because when I do, I don’t hear the wind.

My name is
Caleb. I live on the plains in eastern Colorado, where weather plays a bigger
role in your life than church or family. Summer can be bone dry for months and
then deluge for weeks. A winter’s snowstorm can dump three feet of snow,
stranding cattle and putting your family to ruin. And every autumn we get
windstorms, ripping out of the Rockies like angry gods and lasting for days.
But never like this.

This windstorm
hasn’t stopped in fifty-eight days.

It came on like
army worms: slow and relentless. Strong, fall winds that got worse every day,
grabbing at you and knocking you over. I first knew it was something unusual
when Mandi and I were in the scoring tower next to the football field. We
talked for the first time about maybe being together, and jumping in the car
one day to leave the plains for good.

The winds
started blowing in, like every fall morning, but they got fierce in a hurry.
The metal tower started creaking, and before long we felt it bend and sway.
Then all of a sudden, the whole tower lurched, throwing Mandi into me, and I
saw the fear in her eyes.

“Let’s get out
of here,” I yelled, helping her up. We struggled down the thin metal ladder
with the wind pulling at our clothes. The trees were thrashing behind us and an
aspen snapped in half. When we made it back to her car, we collapsed in the
seats, all out of breath.

People were
able to move around town for a while, though it was a struggle and got worse
every day. It wasn’t long before the school closed and the store was empty.
When none of the phones worked, we knew the cell tower was gone.

“It’s going to
be a rough winter,” Dad said as we were fitting out the cellar with water,
canned food, and batteries.

“Has it ever
been like this?” I asked.

He didn’t say
anything, and I knew that it hadn’t.

And then on
November 3rd, the first really big wind came. It took the trees out
first, then the windows. We all scrambled to find shelter. After that, you
could hardly go outside, except in the late afternoon when it died down a
little.

I cried the day
I helped Mandi try to find her dog. A lot of animals are just plain missing,
and everyone knows the wind took them, but nobody says it out loud. Calling out
didn’t do any good since even a dog couldn’t hear over the wind, but Mandi
yelled for Sierra as loud as she could. The wind was pushing her little Civic
all over the streets and pelting us with branches until it got too dangerous to
be outside. When we had to give up looking, Mandi started crying. I put my hand
on her shoulder and just let it stay there, and touching her felt like the only
steady thing in the world.

Her parents
went to Denver to buy supplies before the storm got really bad. Mandi hasn’t
heard from them since we lost the phones. I hope they didn’t try to get back;
they never would have made it.

Mandi asked me
to stay with her, and I think about what that might have meant before the
storm. I told her I would, but that’s the night my Dad decided we had to move
into the school. It’s one of the only buildings in town that might make it
through the winter. Three stories of big, red, hundred-year-old blocks,
surrounded by old oaks. When you walk through its imposing entrance and wide
echoey halls, you know the town thought it had a future when they built it.

I like to come
up to the third floor in the afternoon when the winds slow. I can see the whole
town, including Mandi’s house, which is only half a block away. Street signs,
roof shingles, lawn chairs and anything else you can imagine blow through the
school yard. I saw part of a sign blow by and I recognized it: Sombrero
Stables. The stables are forty miles away, which means the storm could be at
least eighty miles wide, and it’s swirling.

There are
nineteen of us living at the school, including Mr. Jonas who owns the bank and
most of the land surrounding the town. He comes up to the third floor every day
to survey things. He’ll scan the town and surrounding fields, then just stare
at the bank building for the longest time, not saying anything, and I can see
the muscles in his face get tenser and tenser.

We’ve been able
to block certain areas in the school, and let the wind blow through others to
lessen the pressure on the building. The winds would probably have to be twice
as powerful to take the school down, but they’re getting stronger, and some
houses that looked pretty sturdy about a month ago don’t look that way anymore.

We watched the
Wilsons’ house go down, and it’s something I wished I had never seen. First the
roof blew off, then the whole house came apart in a matter of minutes, and
while we desperately hoped otherwise, they were all still in there: Mr. and
Mrs. Wilson, Charlene and little Danny, clinging to the beams and plumbing
fixtures as the walls broke up around them.

My dad couldn’t
help himself and dashed into the storm to try and help. He never made it across
the street. The wind grabbed hold of him, and he was just gone. I struggled and
cried while Mr. Jonas and two of the other men held me back. Then, one by one,
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and both kids blew off into the wind, rolling away with the
debris, screaming silently in the roar. None of us spoke for hours.

Except Jimmy.

Jimmy’s been
talking nonstop, and nobody really knows what to do with him. He only sleeps a
few hours a night, and the rest of the time he’s constantly chattering in his
high shaky voice.

“Do you think
it’ll stop?” he asks me when we’re down in the locker room filling old
mayonnaise jugs with water.

I don’t want to
answer.

Everybody
thinks about it. It’s all we think about. But nobody says they don’t think it
will stop, because there’s nothing after that.

“The winds have
lasted longer every year, but they’ve never been like this,” Jimmy says. “It
could last all winter.”

“Yeah,” I say,
as if we all haven’t thought the same thing every day for over a month.

Huh, small talk
. . . the weather.

I think about
Mandi and try to convince myself she’s all right. She needs to come here.
Everybody does, but that’s probably not possible anymore.

“Do you ever
feel like going into it?” Jimmy asks. “Just go outside and let it take you?”

“Don’t talk like
that, Jimmy.”

“I can’t help
it. I’ll be listening to the wind and start wondering what it would be like to
walk right out into it.”

“Shut up,” I
say with more anger in my voice than I mean to have.

“I wouldn’t do
it.” Jimmy looks hurt. He turns away and I barely hear him over the wind, “But
it would be like flying.”

Then he looks
at the faucet. “Come on, Caleb. We’ve got to fill these jugs.”

I look down and
the water is running over my hand. I change jugs, but the image of Jimmy flying
in the wind doesn’t leave my head. And then I picture Mandi, ripped from the
wreckage of her home, carried out into the plains, and I decide right then that
I have to get her. There’s no way I’m going let the wind take her, like it took
the Wilsons.

Like it took my
dad.

“I’m going to
get Mandi,” I tell Mr. Jonas when we get back upstairs. “She’s just across the
street. I’ll crawl and set up ropes to bring her back.” I’m not sure if it will
work, but I know I’m resolved.

“You’ll never
make it,” Mr. Jonas says. His jaw is set and he looks me in the eye with hard
seriousness.

“It’s only half
a block.”

“It might as
well be half way to Kansas. You don’t even know if she’s . . . still there.”

Mr. Jonas talks
in a way that he assumes everyone will do what he tells them to do, but there
must be a look on my face that shows him it’s no use trying to stop me, because
he doesn’t say anything more after that.

He and Jimmy
even help me get ready. I put on a thick leather letter jacket we find
abandoned in an old lost-and-found box, and a borrowed motorcycle helmet and
goggles. We find a couple of ropes in the boiler room.

In the
afternoon, when the wind eases, we walk down to the big glass front doors,
which are webbed with cracks but still intact. We tie one end of a rope around
my waist and one end to the big radiator in the hallway. I shake their hands,
and then the three of us force the door open enough for me to get through. I
take a deep breath and push myself outside.

The wind blasts
me against the rough stone blocks of the school and holds me there. It’s hard
to catch my breath, and I have to hold the goggles onto my face. I ease down
the wall, get on my stomach and start crawling.

The wind is
tearing at me, roaring all around my body, and I thank God Jimmy thought of the
cotton to put in my ears. I make my way through the schoolyard. Sticks, dirt
and even rocks fly into me. When I get near the street, I tie the rope around
one of the oak trunks, now just a tall jagged stump, and start the next rope.

I crawl across
the street, and a gust begins to lift me. I splay out, trying to lower my
center of gravity. Wind is pouring under me, levitating me as if I was an
airplane on a runway. I’m a gust away from being picked up and driven into a
tree or building. I claw into the asphalt with my fingernails trying to gain
purchase and anchor myself to the ground. I let out my breath, trying to get
flatter, heavier.

I will myself
into the pavement.

The wind shifts
a bit and my body drops back to the ground. Only after I feel the street
against the whole length of me do I dare breathe again.

When I’ve
regained my breath, and some of my confidence, I start crawling again. I inch
my way across the street and finally reach the first house on Mandi’s block. I
press myself against its wall. The siding is shaking, pulling at its nails.
Staying low, I move from house to house, scraping myself along the walls.

And then, I’m
there.

Mandi’s house.

Her porch is
gone, and the front door and all the windows are broken out. Inside, it’s a
disaster. Paper and clothes and broken picture frames are blowing everywhere. A
mattress is caught at an angle in the window frame, flapping wildly. I set the
rope as best I can, tying it around the banister and a couch, then make my way
through the kitchen, which is even more chaotic. The cupboard doors are beating
open and closed, and the floor is covered with broken glass. I pull away the
table that’s been blown against the cellar door. The wind grabs it and thrusts
it against the far wall.

I force the
door open, walk down the stairs, and I see her. Sitting in a corner, staring at
a Coleman lamp, rocking back and forth.

She looks up
and I can’t tell if she believes what she sees. I take off the helmet and it
takes her a minute to register that it’s me.

“What are you .
. . how . . .” she stammers. Her voice is shaking.

“I came to get
you,” I say, but I barely hear myself because the adrenalin from my crawl and
the sight of her still alive are making my heart pound louder than the wind.

“But . . .”
Mandi is dumbstruck. Stuck in the well of a house that wasn’t going to protect
her much longer, I’m sure she thought she was going to die.

“How?”

“I crawled from
the school, and I rigged a rope so we can get back. We’ll be safe there,” I say
with as much assurance as I can martial.

And she breaks
down. I put my arm around her and let her cry. When she’s done, she looks up at
me and her face is a mix of exhaustion, disbelief, and hope and I know at that
moment that we’re going to get back to the school. We’re going to make it until
spring, no matter what. I know this more than anything I’ve known before—know
it for the both of us—and right now, that’s all I need to know.

Update
20/09/2015 - Jim Kroepfl's 3rd place story The Front Line has been
placed in a competition by the Midway Journal in Minnesota. The journal wishes
to publish the story, and for this reason we have temporarily removed it from
our website. Congratulations, Jim!

This week saw the launch of Simon Kettlewell's novel Bread for the Bourgeoisie. An action-packed thriller set in the seamy world of human trafficking, it is already attracting excellent reviews. Download it on Kindle from Amazon.